Too Much
by awesomepossum
Summary: Sara and Nick and an adventure... oh my! SN... mmm, Snickers
1. Breakfast as Usual

A/N: Hello, everybody! GUESS WHAT? I wrote a multi-chap that is GETTING POSTED and IS ALREADY FINISHED! which means there will be NO WAITING for updates!  
(how revolutionary, the crowd murmurs)  
So here, all in one, is my story which has taken me like a month to write. My sister thinks it's good, but, eh... i dunno. See for yourself. tell me if it's not.  
Disclaimer: p.s. this applies to all future chapters NOT MINE! sigh not even George. What a bummer. My dad goes to Texas on business enough, you'd think they'd give him some sort of coupon...

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Sara woke up to the sound of a shrill noise buzzing in her ear. She frowned drowsily and rolled over. The noise stopped. Sara sighed with relief and began to fall asleep again when the buzzing noise began again and she realized it was her cell phone vibrating on the night stand beside her bed. She frowned. She had the next shift off, she was actually using her vacation time to sleep in; why would anyone call her? She wasn't on call... She groaned. Didn't people know that she was trying to actually sleep? How out of character was this for her, and when would it ever happen again? Very, and never.

Sara sighed, now fully awake with no chance of falling asleep again, and reached to pick up her phone. She really hated herself for that habit; once she woke up, she couldn't sleep again. Although, she thought, it was a good habit to have when you're working the night shift. She'd only slept for a few hours before the phone rang, and she was still sleepy from the shift before and groggy from the little sleep that she'd had. She picked up her phone, flipped it open and mumbled, not at all attractively,

"Sidle"

"Hey there Sar, I know it's your day off and I was wonderin' if you'd like to get some breakfast with me after shift?"

"Nick? Oh God... umm, yeah sure, when?" she asked, clearing her throat to get rid of her gravelly voice.

"How 'bout I come pick you up in oh, say, half an hour? I wasn't waking you up or anything, was I?" he added sheepishly.

"Yeah, that's fine. Half an hour, sure. And yeah, you did wake me up Nick," she said bitterly, hoping to convey her glare through the phone.

"No wonder you're such a ray of sunshine, then," he joked. "I'll be there in thirty."

"Mmm, yeah, okay," Sara sighed defeatedly, hanging up her phone. Even if she WAS capable of going back to sleep there'd be no chance now. Oh well, this way she didn't have to make breakfast herself.

Sara rolled out of bed and yawned, rubbing her temples while she headed over to her closet to decide what to wear. She grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans at random, then grabbed underwear and socks from her drawer and headed into the bathroom. She emerged ten minutes later and decided to watch T.V. until Nick got to her place.

Twenty minutes later, Sara heard a knock on her door. She shut off the T.V. and walked to her door, yelling "Who is it?" even though she knew who it was.

"S'me, Sar, you ray of sunshine you," came Nick's voice, muffled through the door. Sara checked the peephole anyways; she was a little paranoid about opening her door after all the nutjobs and horrible crimes she'd seen on the job. She undid the lock and pulled the door in, Nick stepping in as it swung open. "Haven't seen you in awhile, Sar," Nick said as he pulled her into a hug. Sara wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sighed silently to herself.

"Yep, feels like it's been ages," she replied, realizing how much she missed working together with the rest of the night shift, but especially Nick. She missed their kidding and innocent flirting, and just seeing his face when she was working. She pulled away and grabbed a jean jacket out of her hall closet, then her purse as she put on her shoes. "Anywhere special in mind?" she asked, knowing they were just going to their regular diner but asking anyways.

"Indoor dining, casual ambience, er... 'edible' cuisine," he replied, playing up the better aspects of the diner.

"Third home away from home," she replied, smiling. It felt like ages since she had last smiled.

Nick started to head out the door and paused when he didn't hear Sara's steps following him. He turned around and saw her just looking at him, almost wistfully...? "Aww, Sara, I missed you too," he said, turning around again and pulling her into another, longer hug. He finally pulled his left arm away and kept his right arm around her body, guiding them out the door together. She turned around and locked the door, following Nick out to his Tahoe in her apartment's parking lot. She climbed in the passenger's seat and pulled on her seatbelt while Nick went around the other side to the driver's seat. He put the keys into the ignition and Sara fiddled with the preset radio stations, frowning.

"Is country all you've got programmed on here?" she asked.

"Sara, you don't know me as well as I thought you did," said Nick, smiling. Of course he only had country programmed. He chuckled at Sara's obvious displeasure. "Oh, c'mon now, it's not that bad is it?" he asked, then began to croon along to some song about a runaway dog and a broken guitar. Sara grimaced, but sat back and folded her arms across her chest as the Tahoe pulled out of the lot. She actually sort of liked the fact that Nick was singing; she only sang to herself when she thought nobody else was around. And she would never have the guts to sing that obnoxiously in front of other people.

The ride to the diner was enjoyable; each told the other about the rest of their broken team after Nick eventually stopped singing (Sara had to turn the radio off and threaten to use Mace), and things were almost like normal. The truck pulled into the parking lot of the diner and Nick and Sara undid their seatbelts and jumped out, eager to eat and catch up on the rest of what they were missing.

As they walked up the path that lead to the front door, Nick surprised Sara by offering her his arm, which Sara surprised Nick by accepting. Nick smiled and opened the door for Sara, who then realized she had been holding Nick's arm almost possessively by then and let go immediately to walk through the door. They walked over to a booth and sat down, Sara on one side and Nick on the other.

"And what five-course meal will you be gorging yourself with today?" Sara quipped, taking off her jacket, glancing over the menu and deciding on pancakes with blueberry sauce.

"Ha, ha, Sidle," Nick said dryly, mentally crossing at least five items off the list of food he was going to order. "Only two courses," he added defensively.

"Growing boy needs his food, huh?" she joked, pointing at his stomach which was ironically taut for the amount of food he ate.

"It all gets worked into this fabulous bod," Nick replied, flexing his triceps.

"You are so full of yourself," laughed Sara.

"You know you like it," Nick retorted. Just then, the sixty-some-odd waitress with a saggy face and cotton-candy blue hair walked up.

"Orders?" she intoned, bored. Obviously she didn't appreciate the morning shift.

"Pancakes-"

"Omelette-"

They started at the same time.

"You first," said Nick, attempting a gracious bow in the limited space of the booth.

"Alright," said Sara, smiling, "Just some pancakes with blueberry sauce, please," she asked.

"You, buddy?" asked the waitress with a raspy smoker's voice.

"Western omelette, sausages, bacon and white toast. Please." Nick added hurriedly, not wanting to sound rude.

"Wish I had your metabolism," Sara sighed as the waitress left the table.

"You do fine without it," smirked Nick, letting his eyes rove the top half of her frame openly and raising an eyebrow.

"Oh I do, do I?" she asked, mimicking Nick's raised eyebrow.

"Sure do, sunshine," he said, and laughed easily.

"So why'd you ask me to breakfast?" Sara asked suddenly. "Was it to make sure I'm mentally healthy even though I'm taking a day off? Or did you just miss having me around? Too dependant to function without me?"

"Would you believe the latter?" asked Nick flirtatiously.

"Not especially," she responded. She busied herself with a part of the table pattern, inexplicably finding something different about this conversation and not finding it altogether too comfortable.

"I do miss you, Sar," he said, tilting her chin up. She looked at him in the eyes. "I miss not seeing you every day, I miss hanging out with you in the breakroom, hell, I even miss when you start whining about something. I'm serious," he added as she chuckled. "I wish... I wish we were still together. Our team, I mean," he corrected himself quickly.

"I miss you too, Nick," she said quietly. And it was true, she did. They had been growing closer until the team's untimely demise at the hands of one Conrad Ecklie, and the time they spent apart was weighing heavily on all of them. Sara sighed and took his hand from her chin, holding it in her own and stroking the back with her thumb absently. "I miss you alot, Nick," she said, eyes down, not conveying her real meaning. She had begun to feel attracted to him, in a way that was more than friendly. All her hopes of moving their relationship to the next level had shot out the window like a ballistics test when the team was divided, but she never displayed that feeling outwardly. On the other hand, however, she was sort of relieved that she didn't have to spend every day with Nick, debating whether or not she actually did want to stay only friends, or trying to determine what Nick felt about them. True, they flirted all the time, but it was... friendly. She often found herself debating the merits of losing such a great friendship to romance; was it worth it? Would she lose Nick forever if they tried dating and ended up breaking up? She had had her heart broken before and although she knew that Nick would never intentionally hurt her, she really didn't want to lose their friendship over anything. She looked up at him and saw him staring intently at her, and as she opened her mouth to say something, the waitress came up to the table and plopped a plate of flapjacks in front of Sara unceremoniously.

"Yers is comin' buddy," the waitress grunted to Nick. He got the feeling she had worked the morning hours for far too long... she should try swing shift.

Sara had let go of Nick's hand as soon as the pancakes had interrupted and now she found herself missing the comfort he had brought her just by literally being there.

She looked at Nick almost apologetically, and picked up her fork and knife and began to carve away at the pancakes. She hadn't even realized how hungry she was until the first of three pancakes was gone. She stopped eating and looked up at Nick, who was watching her wolf down her pancakes with amusement. She narrowed her eyes and he held up his hands in surrender as the waitress placed three plates down in front of him; one with his omelette and a side of bacon, one devoted entirely to sausages and another supporting six pieces of toast. He jokingly rubbed his hands in anticipation and picked up his knife and fork, immediately shoveling a good portion of his omelette into his mouth. It was Sara's turn to smile amusedly at the ravenous eating habits being displayed. One would think Nick hadn't eaten in weeks, when it was really probably only around a few hours since his last meal.

The two ate in silence, glad to be at least in the same room together after such a long time spent apart, and soon all four plates on the table were clear, except for a small piece of pancake still on Sara's plate.

"You gonna finish that?" asked Nick, swallowing the last of his toast.

"All yours, Miss Piggy," she answered, shoving her plate across the table at him. He ignored the comment and ate the last bite of pancake. The waitress immediately came with the bill as if she just couldn't wait to get rid of them.

"I got it," both Sara and Nick said, pulling out their respective wallets.

"No, it's okay, I've got it," said Nick, pulling the receipt towards himself. Sara snatched it out of his hand.

"I've got it now," she replied smugly.

"Not anymore," Nick sang, snagging the bill and holding it out of Sara's reach. Sara got up from the table and came around to Nick's side of the booth, reaching over him for the bill, which he held in the hand furthest away from her. Nick leaned away but only slightly, so that Sara's body was flush with his. He looked up at her. "You know, Miss Sidle," he said in a low voice, "I could get very used to this..."

"You could, could you?" she breathed, looking down at him. She brought her face even closer to his until she could feel his breathing on her face. She smiled demonically. "...too bad." She finally reached the bill and grabbed it, pulled herself off of Nick (which he was very disappointed with) and started smugly to head to her side of the booth again. Just as she stepped out of Nick's reach, the door flew open and shots rang out.

Four people with masks on their faces stormed in, brandishing AK-47's and opening a hail of bullets. The patrons of the diner screamed in fear and rushed to get under their tables and out the opposite door. Nick ducked to the ground beneath the table and looked over to where Sara was standing. A horrible sight met his eyes as he looked at Sara, who had caught a bullet in the shoulder and was writhing in pain, still pitifully clutching the bill to her chest. Nick slowly got out from under the table, worry all over his face as he crept towards Sara, still keeping low to the ground, and he peeled off his button up shirt, exposing his undershirt, and put the shirt gently to Sara's wound. She cried out in pain, attracting the attention of one of the shooters, who motioned to his comrades.

Nick cradled Sara's head in his lap as he pulled out his own gun from its holster, grateful he hadn't taken it off after shift. He kept the gun low to the ground and out of sight; he wouldn't use it if he didn't have to. Sara moaned dully as she began to lose consciousness along with her blood. She grasped at Nick's arm in a futile attempt to stay awake and he responded by holding her hand briefly and then returning his hand to its position over her wound. One of the gunmen approached the pathetic scene while the other three robbed various customers and leapt the counter to break open the cash register. Nick's head reeled at the actions of the perpetrators; they hardly seemed any older than college kids, perhaps they were. The one that had approached them grunted at Nick.

"Weapon down. Now," he added forcefully as Nick glared at him hatefully for doing this to Sara. He placed his gun on the floor at the gunman's feet and immediately his hand flew to grasp Sara's again. She squeezed his hand with all the strength she had left, which at this point was minimal. Nick's heart broke as he looked down at the figure in his lap and he again returned his disgusted glare to the masked man - or perhaps kid - in front of him. "Stand up," the young man ordered. Nick began to protest that Sara was too weak, but the gunman shot a warning round into the booth beside Nick, straight into Sara's jean jacket. "I said get up, loser," he yelled, waving his weapon around menacingly. Nick had dealt with people like this before, and had been held at gunpoint before, but never like this, with other peoples' lives at stake. His mind raced. What was one supposed to do in this situation? He absently registered several more shots being fired so he stood up obligingly and supported Sara as well, who was wavering between the conscious levels of her mind. He knew if he tried to call for help with his cell that more shots would be fired and people would die because of it, because of him... that was out of the question. He rested Sara in the booth they had shared, subtly moving her purse under the seat so the gunmen wouldn't take it and CSI would find it later to give back to Sara. He stood slowly, putting his hands behind his head, his lap covered in Sara's blood.

"Your whore, she's coming with us," growled the man, shoving Nick in the shoulder with his gun but not firing. "Spike," he roared, presumably at one of his partners. "Tie the chick up and chuck 'er in the trunk," he hollered.

"No!" Nick yelled, hands still on his head, trying to stay calm and cautious. "She's too weak to come with you, please leave her alone," he pleaded. "She needs to get to a hospital," he said, a little lower. "She could die if she's not looked after," he continued. A tear threatened to fall at the thought of losing Sara, but he knew that the last thing he wanted to do was put both Sara and himself at the mercy of these people. He had to at least appear strong or God only knew what was going to happen.

"We'll look after her okay," sneered the man. He flashed an evil grin that was visible even through his ski mask. Nick shuddered. He glanced over at Sara who, despite her best efforts, had finally sunk into unconsciousness. He steeled himself.

"I'll go instead, just please, she needs to get to a hospital," Nick argued, managing to keep his voice relatively steady. "...please," he added again, softer this time.

"What good would you be to us, you S.O.B.? And what's it to ya anyway?" A realization seemed to hit him. "You're screwin' her aren't ya... I see how it is, you want her to yerself. She really IS your whore... Well ya know what, Prince Charming? The world would be a better place if we shared more, right? So share," he spat cruelly and flashed a creepy grin that would turn Medusa to stone.

Nick looked again at Sara, whose unconscious face held no trace of the pain she was feeling earlier. He wondered if she had fallen unconscious because of the pain or the loss of blood... either way, it was blatantly obvious that she needed medical attention. Nick flicked his eyes around the room... Sara was the only casualty. Why did it have to be her? He felt tears come to his eyes again and forced them to stay back. He looked at the gunmen who were now all encircling Sara and him. He had to make a deal.

"Why do you want her?" he asked cautiously, weighing each word spoken.

"Are you serious, punk?" jeered one of the perpetrators.

"Yes, I'm serious... do you want a hostage, or are you so desperate to get laid that you'd rape an unconscious woman?" he mocked, fear still showing in his eyes but going undetected by the gang.

The first gunman stepped closer and grabbed Nick by the scruff of his undershirt. He aimed his gun at Nick's head with his other hand, and Nick's breathing suddenly became ragged and shallow. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say... The second gunman produced a rope from one of the many pockets of his pants, took Nick's arms from behind his head and tied them in an awkward position behind his back.

"If you're so desperate to come with, then you can tag along, too," sneered the first gunman. He raised his gun above his head and brought it down hard on Nick's skull, knocking him unconscious as well. "Tie 'em up and stick 'em both in the trunk, we're heading out," he hollered to his companions.

A/N: Expecting that? muahahaha. Review, S.V.P.


	2. Drama

"Where's Sara, again?" Greg asked Grissom as they traveled to the home of an incredibly rich and incredibly dead starlet. The woman had just struck an acting goldmine by being cast as the lead character in a brand new soap which had been predicted to top the daytime ratings chart, and had been found dead in her dressing room, hours late to the first filming day. The body had already been processed by Doctor Robbins and was now awaiting a viewing in the morgue for official identification. Greg and Grissom were going to search the woman's mansion, bought with her ex-husband's money, for any ideas as to who would have wanted the woman dead. 

"She took a day off, why?" asked Grissom, shades on, staring straight ahead at the road.

"Nothing, just, it's kinda... weird not having her around. She never misses work, especially when we need people for a double shift," Greg said, and stared out the window watching the multi-million dollar homes slip past.

"So you're here and she's not... did we interrupt your important business?" asked Grissom mockingly, not showing any signs of the fatigue that plagued most CSIs continuing into a double shift.

They arrived at the home and found the ornate front door conspicuously unlocked. They walked into the foyer which opened onto a living room, and a young, mousey-brown-haired man sitting in front of a big-screen T.V., clearly shocked at finding the two men entering the house without his prior knowledge. The man jumped off the couch and ran to the doorway.

"Gentlemen? May I help you?" he asked, confused.

"Yes, I'm Gil Grissom, this is Greg Sanders, we're with the LVPD crime lab, we were wondering if we could have a look around?"

"Ummm... why?" asked the man.

"Are you aware that the owner of this house, Grace Vanderton, has passed away?" Grissom asked, point-blank.

"You... You're kidding me," the young man said, his face going white. He put a hand to his head. "Gracie... she... she's my sister... she's dead?" he asked, tears welling up in his hazel eyes.

"Yes, I'm sorry to inform you but Miss Vanderton was found dead in her dressing room this morning. May I ask why you're here?" Grissom enquired, cocking his head to the side like a parakeet and setting his field kit on the white marble floor of the foyer. The morning sunlight coming in from the large picture window in the far wall cast a long patch of creamy whiteness that reached Grissom's feet, interruped only by the shadow of his kit.

"She wanted me to house-sit while she was away... I know it was only for a short while but there've been a lot of robberies around here lately and she was so worried about it... I mean, there're alarm systems all over the place but they don't seem to be doing much in terms of stopping the robbers," the young man continued.

"Neither is leaving the front door unlocked," interjected Greg, who then walked past Grace's brother and moved into the living room. Just then, Grissom's cell phone rang.

"Please excuse me," he said, holding up his hand to Grace's brother while he pulled his cell out of its holder and flipped it open.

"Grissom," he said. "What? Nick... is that you? I can't hear you... you're breaking up..." Grissom fell silent and went pale. "Stay calm. Kick out the taillight if you can. Wait... what's in the way?" More colour drained out of Grissom's face and he took his sunglasses off in shock. "Sara's in the way, and she's unconscious? Oh... kay... do you have any idea where you are? No... alright. Stay on the line, if you can." Grissom motioned to Greg. "Nick and Sara have been taken hostage from a robbery at the diner. I want you to call HQ and get a trace. I'm keeping Nick on the line as long as I can." Greg nodded solemnly, shocked, and pulled out his own cell phone, dialing headquarters as fast as he could and requested a trace, relaying Nick's cell phone number to the person on the other end of the line. Grissom put his phone to his ear again, and Grace's brother stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. "Nick? Stay on. I've got Greg running a trace to your phone, okay? Leave your phone on but put it away, you can't let your captors know that we know. Take care of Sara, okay? Do you want me to keep talking to you? Okay. Just be quiet then, we're doing what we can to get you guys back safe." Grissom left his phone open and the connection with Nick's phone unbroken, but he put the phone back in its holder to keep it out of the way.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Vanderton, I'd like to get back now to your sister. Do-"

"Mr. Grissom, it is Mr. Grissom, right? Mr. Grissom, my name's not Vanderton, that's my sister's stage name... I'm Peter. Peter Humber."

"Thank you, Peter. Do you know if your sister had any enemies?"

"Mr. Grissom, in the acting world, if there's somebody going for the same part that you are, they are automatically your enemy. Grace beat a lot of other equally talented actresses out for that part, and I know that if a part is taken from you that you think you deserved, you can get pretty bitter about it," explained Pete.

"Were there any other actresses that you know of off the top of your head who would be jealous enough to actually eliminate the competition on a more permanent level?"

Peter's answer was cut off by Greg, who came back to Grissom.

"Since it's a cell phone that Nick's on, they can't get the exact position without GPS," started Greg, "but they can track the transmitter that's relaying Nick's calls, which is the transmitter that he's closest to. Last we saw he was on the I-15, and comparing the transmitters he's gotten his signal from shows he's heading way outta Vegas. We gotta get some feds out on the trail," said Greg, anxiety creasing his brow.

"Thank you, Greg," said Grissom wearily, slipping his shades back on. He turned to Peter.

"My apologies, Mr. Humber, but we've got urgent business to attend to. We'll be back later, hopefully today, to look for some clues as to your sister's killer." He turned to walk out the door, picking up his kit. Just before he reached the door as Greg disappeared down the outside verandah steps, Grissom turned around. "Oh, and lock the doors. It might be people on the other side of the law who come through it next, instead of us," he warned, and with that he was gone. Peter let out a breath of air, closed the door without locking it and went to the phone. He dialed a number and waited for the person on the other end to pick up.

"Hello?" came a rough, deep voice.

"Spike? They came..."

A/N: how do you like that? no annoying notes at the top of the page... keep reading! no, wait... stop to review, first! S.V.P., of course.


	3. Scene of the Crime

Back at the lab, Greg and Grissom were hounding the tracing team, trying to get a specific location for the vehicle which was carrying the precious cargo of their teammates. The trace line so far had brought the vehicle within a two mile radius of a transmitter just south of the I-15 and had traced the route from the place where Nick picked up his phone, thirty miles away from the current display. The red dots on the screen blinked mockingly at the team that sat anxiously in front of them, and suddenly another dot appeared a half mile north of the previous one. The vehicle was still moving. Grissom stood up from his seat in front of the monitor and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. 

"Where are you going?" asked Greg, anxious to do whatever he could to get Nick and Sara back.

"To the diner. It's dayshift's crime scene, but Sara's our team member. I'm sure Ecklie will understand," he said through gritted teeth, which gave the impression that if Ecklie didn't understand, Grissom would make him.

"I'm coming too, then," said Greg, with all the impatience of a superhero's rookie sidekick which, standing next to Grissom, was a role he easily could have played.

"Keep the trace line up," Grissom instructed the concentrating technician left at the monitor, who simply nodded tersely and continued to watch the screen intently for any sign of new movement.

"What about the Vanderton case?" asked Greg, referring to the actor who had so mysteriously been murdered in her own dressing room.

"Let's see if we can convince Ecklie to switch with us then; Vanderton's case for Sara and Nick's," Grissom muttered as he set a clipped pace down the hall to the elevators.

"And if he doesn't?" asked Greg anxiously.

"We'll give Vanderton to Catherine and put in a little overtime," said Grissom.

The two CSIs reached the department Tahoe at the same time, Grissom stalking his way to the driver's side and Greg riding shotgun. Sooner than Greg could reach around to pull his seatbelt on, the car was speeding out of the car lot and racing towards the diner, which was chillingly now a crime scene instead of an eatery. The effect of the different situations was eerie; Greg tried not to think that this place that the CSIs liked to unwind in after a case was now a major part of another case.

Grissom ducked underneath the crime scene tape, waving his badge around for anyone who cared to see it, Greg pulling his badge out as well. The two men entered the diner, kits at their sides as a sign that they would not be leaving any time soon. Ecklie looked up from a puddle of blood that Greg got the sinking feeling once belonged to Sara. He stood up as Grissom approached him, Greg holding back a bit, and pulled a bit at his gloves but didn't take them off.

"Conrad."

"Gilbert."

Both men spoke at the same time and nodded civilly, a glint in Ecklie's eyes betraying the merely cermonial gesture. He was the first to speak.

"How can I help you boys? Did you not get enough fun out of the night cases? Had to transfer to day? Well I didn't see any transfer papers, wonder if they were misplaced..." he smirked maliciously, but without humour.

"Droll. I suppose you know just who was taken, then, am I correct?"

"If that means do I know that our own were taken, then yes, and you may kindly step away from the crime scene. Surely you know this is my case?"

"What I meant was that OUR own were taken, and yes, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind us taking this case off your hands, then, would you?" countered Grissom, irked by Ecklie's mere presence in the room.

"That's where you're wrong. You work your cases, I work mine, and never the twain shall meet," snarled Conrad, his voice growing ever so slightly.

"Ah, but you see, this case involves..."

"I realize who this case involves, Grissom. I'm not that thick," he snapped, and Greg scoffed and looked away, innocently. "And what's more," Ecklie continued, "You know this case is too personal for your team to investigate. We can't have you around to bias or compromise the investigation!" Conrad was nearly yelling by now.

"We are now two hands short and can't investigate any more cases while we're still missing a member from both night shift and swing shift," explained Grissom, as calmly as possible, but in his mind he was choking Ecklie to death and kicking him repeatedly. "So we have two choices. To 'borrow' two members of your team, or offer help from two members of ours for this case solely. Otherwise, we'll never make any progress at all on any cases. So you can accept our help or keep the case to yourself with two less investigators. Your call..." Grissom trailed off.

Ecklie frowned in frustration for a moment and let out a tense sigh, then looking down and up again he held out his glove-clad hand.

"A week on our team. Any longer and you drop the case entirely. You compromise the case in any way and your ass is not only off the case but off the force as well. Deal?"

Grissom stared with hard eyes, and then reluctantly reached his hand out as well to shake Ecklie's. Suddenly, Ecklie withdrew.

"Why do you want this case so badly, Grissom? It's not exactly protocol to have two different shifts working together without an all-hands call..."

Grissom didn't know what he was getting at, but it didn't sound at all reassuring. He simply raised an eyebrow quizzically and offered his hand again. This time, Ecklie hesitantly put his hand out again, grasping Grissom's firmly and shaking it weakly. 'An odd sort of handshake,' thought Grissom to himself. Nevertheless, it sealed the deal Grissom had bargained for. He dropped Ecklie's hand like a hot coal and picked up his silver field kit while Greg picked up his, and together they squatted over the blood pool that Ecklie had been standing over. Understanding he had been replaced, Ecklie moved over to where some bewildered looking bystanders waited to be interviewed, and pulled out his notepad. "Hi ma'am, my name is Conrad Ecklie..."

Greg pulled on his gloves and took snapshots of the blood pool while Grissom, already gloved, took a swab, just to confirm that it was indeed the blood of one of their missing coworkers. There appeared to be an area that wasn't touched by the blood in a semi-circular shape; this was where Nick had held Sara so carefully in his lap. There were blood smears on the seat and back of the booth; this was where Sara had been placed while Nick stood under threat of death. Sara's purse was shoved under the booth from when Nick had so gallantly hidden it from their captors. Sara's jacket displayed a bullet hole, but no blood spatter; she hadn't been wearing it when she was shot. There were drag marks and fibers; this was where Sara and Nick had been bound and dragged out of the restaurant. Foot prints and drag prints on the back door mat showed where Nick and Sara had been so unceremoniously escorted to the vehicle in which they now lay, trapped. Greg measured and photographed several shoe prints and a smear of blood along the pavement outside. Witnesses described the getaway vehicle as a silver grey Kia Rio, and there was silver grey paint transfer on the brick wall outside, which Greg dutifully measured, photographed and swabbed. Inside, Grissom was working the booth in which Sara had lain. There was a plethora of medium length auburn hairs, without a doubt Sara's. There were several other hairs as well, but they could easily have been left by any number of the many patrons who had occupied the restaurant at any given time. Grissom painstakingly collected and labeled them anyways. He reached for his phone to call the lab and ask about the vehicle's progress when he remembered the cell was what the team was using to track them. He placed his evidence bags with hair and Sara's belongings with his tweezers in his kit and walked outside, pulling off his gloves. He approached Greg, who was taking pictures of anything and everything, still green in the field and eager to find his friends.

"Hey shutterbug," called Grissom, interrupting Greg who let the camera hang on the strap around his neck as he turned to face Grissom. "What've you got for me?"

"Some paint transfer, some tire tracks, a footprint in mud and a lot of broken beer bottles and other crap. Do these people not take care of their grounds? The place is covered in garbage!"

"It might be evidence..." Grissom sing-sang. Greg sighed and bent down to bag a sample of every piece of "other crap" that he could find.

Nick felt the car stop suddenly and heard Sara's unconscious body hit the side of the trunk with a sickening thud. He shuffled around to get to Sara as best he could in the confined area, with his arms protesting painfully to the ropes and his head protesting painfully when he hit the top against the roof of the trunk in the same spot where his kidnappers had knocked him out. The car began to move again. He had awoken half an hour ago and checked for his cell phone, immediately finding it where he had left it; apparently these people were not well versed in kidnapping, only in robbing; they hadn't thought to cut off his connection with the outside world. After he had phoned Grissom he left his phone connected so they could run a trace on his phone at HQ, and it sat in a lonely corner of the otherwise cramped trunk, shedding its backlight and displaying the still existing connection. Nick turned himself around so that he was now beside Sara and could prevent her from rolling around anymore and accumulating any more bruises. He checked her over visually and it didn't look like they had done anything to her after he was knocked out other than stuff her into the trunk. Her shoulder, he noticed, now sported his shirt tied tightly around the wound. He nudged it with the side of his face and felt it was still warm and wet; she was still bleeding. The chances of her living were dwindling, but she was still alive. He rested his head on top of the shirt to add pressure to the wound, trying futilely to staunch the blood flow. Nick fumbled with his ropes to try and remove them, but only ended up increasing his frustration and feeling of claustrophobia, so he let his arms rest where they lay. Sara's head twitched and her eyes began to flutter. Nick looked over in surprise - he hadn't expected Sara to regain consciousness at all, but then again he knew she was a tenacious fighter. He started whispering to her, to try and prevent her from panicking and hurting herself if she recovered enough to realize what was going on.

"Shh, Sara. It's okay. Stay calm, okay? Go back to sleep. Shh..."

Sara's eyes flew open and she yelped, trying to get up and feeling Nick's weight on a pain in her shoulder, trying to move Nick and finding her arms bound behind her back and trying to gather her bearings but only being able to see a small light coming from the corner. She felt the floor beneath her moving and stifled the urge to throw up from motion sickness. She tried to flail but Nick rolled himself partly on top of her to keep her from moving. Sara shivered at the proximity of her best friend, but continued to try and move.

"Take a deep breath, Sar," Nick whispered, "Just calm down. Calm down! Shh, it's okay..."

Sara's fighting subsided and she managed to slow her breathing. "Where - where are we?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know. Do you remember what happened at all?" Nick asked.

Sara furrowed her brow and thought about her last recollections. "We were... at the diner... then the bill came... then people came in the door with guns... and I guess I got shot cause my shoulder started hurting... then you were there... then I was back in the booth... and that's all I remember..." she looked around. "So I guess we're not at the Bellagio, huh?" she asked.

"Hardly," answered Nick. "The people who robbed the diner, they took us. They knocked me out but I woke up and phoned Grissom; they're trying to track us at HQ and I gotta leave my phone on for them to do it," said Nick, semi-gesturing to the phone in the corner, still forlornly shining its blue backlight on the pair. "Are you okay, Sar?" asked Nick, taking his head off of Sara's shoulder to look her more or less in the eye.

"As well as I can be in a trunk with a bullet in me," she answered weakly. Nick smiled ironically and laid his head back down on Sara's shoulder. "Thank you, by the way," said Sara.

"For what?" asked Nick.

"For the loan of your shirt," she answered simply, and left it at that. Nick sighed and shifted a little to allow Sara more room now that she could keep herself from rolling around. Sara leaned her head into Nick and sighed as well. The proximity of Nick's body and the scent of his shirt, though soaked with her blood, made her feel strangely at ease with the situation. She shifted into his form and felt reassured that everything would turn out alright. Nick felt her shift into him and smiled a little, leaning in as well in turn. Suddenly the car went over a sharp bump and began jolting, a movement Nick recognized as that of a car traveling over the end of pavement onto a dirt road. Nick pressed Sara carefully into the corner of the trunk where the floor met the hatch and pressed one of his legs into the opposite corner and the other over Sara's legs, so they would move as little as possible and not get nearly as bruised and broken as they would have if they were bucking around the trunk freely. Sara looked down at Nick who was straining to stay in place, when suddenly her vision began to waver and grow blurry in front of her eyes. She tried calling out but found her voice to have stopped working. She struggled a little under Nick to let him know she was losing consciousness again but he only pressed against her tighter, thinking she was moving because of the bumpy road. Her eyes began to close and she fought to keep them open, but to no avail. She craned her neck downwards and kissed Nick's forehead gently before losing her battle and falling unconscious again.

A/N: Review, S.V.P.


	4. On the Road Again

Nick's eyes began to droop long ago, and he was trying desperately to keep them open so he would know when and where he and Sara would be taken out of their captors' vehicle. His head throbbed where it was whacked by the thug's gun butt. The roads they had traveled since they woke up in the trunk an hour ago, judging by the speed of the car and the roughness of the terrain, ranged from side streets to highways to country roads to off road. They were now bumping their way along a slight incline, and Nick estimated that they were out of Nevada. He still held himself pinned against Sara so as to prevent her from taking any more damage. She was unconscious still, blood soaking through Nick's over shirt; yet the flow was stemmed. As long as she didn't lose any more blood, her vitals would be stable and all that was left to worry about was the future. The future, Nick thought to himself. There was so much he was looking forward to in his future earlier this morning, and now the only futures that mattered were of his and Sara's survival. He'd wanted so little for himself, why did this have to happen? He wasn't a greedy person; he only wanted a family and the security his job already gave him, why did it have to be taken away from him? Why did he have to die so soon? It was clear in his mind that he was going to die, worst of all without ever telling Sara how he really felt about her. He looked over at her unconscious face, looking peaceful yet in pain, and he hoped she would be alright. Above all, he hoped he'd be able to protect her. 

Suddenly the car stopped, and the engine cut out. Nick reached behind him as best he could with the ropes still constraining his arms, and he picked up his cell phone from the corner. He listened in closely and could hear the low buzz of conversation coming from the other end...

"Grissom..." he said, trying to get the attention of anyone on the other end, and stay away from the attention of the people on his end. He held the phone in one hand and pressed a number key with the other, coding in morse for help, the only morse code he knew: ...---... SOS. He pressed the key in this sequence repeatedly until he could hear a worried hello from the earpiece. He continued to SOS, hoping Grissom knew morse and understood that he and Sara were now in grave danger. Grissom yelled something and then spoke into the mouthpiece of his phone again.

"We're cutting trace now, Nick, we've got a location. Hang tight and we'll be there as soon as possible."

"Where are we?" Nick asked, fear starting to choke him, but the connection between he and Grissom was cut. Nick's eyes started to water and he choked back a sob, closing his phone and shoving it into his back pocket. He heard car doors slamming and felt their force rocking the car. He kissed Sara's cheek over and over as he heard footsteps coming around to check the trunk. When he heard the key in the hatch lock, he closed his eyes and feigned a comatose state, immediately taking a position that turned his body mass into dead weight, buying time for Sara who was still partially covered by his body. If the gang couldn't lift him out, they couldn't lift her out, and they'd be safe a little longer. Nick felt arms grab his legs and shoulders as the four young men tried to lift him out of the car. When they realized they couldn't, the ringleader decided to roll him out instead. Nick hadn't been counting on this and was unprepared when they pulled on him from the opposite side until he teetered on the edge of the car and fell painfully to the pavement. He remained motionless, resisting the urge to wipe the blood from the fall off of his face and hold his head in utter pain. He kept his face neutral, despite how much he wanted to cringe. He did cringe, however, when he felt a weight fall on top of him and he realized that the gang had rolled Sara out as well, directly on top of him. Just as suddenly as her weight appeared, it was gone; and a set of footsteps faded as someone carried Sara off. Nick heard somebody count to three and suddenly the ground was no longer beneath him, hands clenched tightly around his ankles and supporting his shoulders. He was carried a short distance before he was dropped into another car and a hatch slammed shut. He immediately opened his eyes, adjusted to the darkness of the new trunk, and searched for Sara, panicked. He was relieved when he felt long hair under his face, and he shifted over until he could feel the body beside him and be sure it was Sara. Letting out a long sigh, he felt the engine rev and back up, and they were on the road again.

Sara moaned in utter agony, dismayed to feel the ground still moving underneath her. She once again stifled the extreme urge to throw up and wriggled in her ropes a bit until she was free. She threw a hand out in the darkness and felt the roof of the trunk, air, and a warm body. She let out a strangled, startled cry, as did Nick; neither expected the other to be awake, or indeed even alive, and their fright soon turned to joy as Sara wrapped both arms around Nick despite the pain that shot through her left arm when her wound pressed against him. She held Nick tightly and tears streaked down her face. She could tell that she had stopped bleeding, and so she knew she'd be able to keep Nick in better company than he'd been in while she was out cold.

"How did you get free?" asked Nick in astonishment when Sara reached around his back, groping to find the ropes that constrained him.

"They didn't tie me well enough, I guess they figured on me staying knocked out," Sara replied as she found a knot and began to work at it. She loosened it enough for Nick to wriggle his arms out, and immediately he brought his arms around to his front and threw them around Sara. He kissed her forehead and pressed his cheek against hers, holding it there, so grateful to have Sara stable and awake.

"I was so worried about you," Nick said, his throat constricting. "Does it hurt?"

"What? Oh, my shoulder. Yeah, yeah it hurts."

"Can I do anything?"

"You can stop bringing it up," Sara suggested.

Nick lay in silence for a moment.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"Bringing it up."

"Nick. You did it again."

Nick chuckled despite the situation, and eased off of Sara a bit, keeping his arm securely around her. Both were thinking of how grateful they were not to be alone. Sara thought about who she'd be thinking of if she were alone, and she realized it was the man right beside her. It would be Nick she'd be thinking of, Nick she'd be missing, Nick who she'd never get to say "I love you" to. Because she did love Nick, and more than just as a friend. Her situation felt hopeless, however, because she knew Nick considered her his best friend and he treasured that relationship. He loved her platonically and no more. She wished she could tell him how in love she was with him, these moments potentially being her last, but nomatter how hard she tried, it was the same as it had been in the months and years before; she knew somehow that Nick would never love her as much as she loved him. She needed his friendship and companionship right now, and what she didn't need was the awkwardness guaranteed after an admission of unrequited love. What she didn't know was that her unexpressed love for him was not unrequited.

Sara thought back over her life. She had never truly been in love, and for that matter, she had never been loved. Her parents never loved her, or her brother, or even each other. Hank hadn't loved her, he had simply used her and lied to her and cheated on her. The worst part is, he stayed with the other woman. He left her alone because he had never loved her. She had had a crush on Grissom, but nothing had ever happened between them, and even if they had become something, she knew his first love would always be his job and never her. Nick loved her, but he loved her like a sister and best friend.

"Do they know that we're gone?" she asked tentatively. She'd never had many people constant in her life; the most constant one was right beside her in the same situation. Her greatest fear had always been that one day she would disappear, and nobody would miss her. Especially now; Nick's shift had ended and his team thought he was at home, and she had, through some small miracle, taken the day off and wasn't supposed to be in the lab until much later. By the time she would have been missed, it would have been too late.

"Yeah, remember, I called Grissom's cell and they put a trace on us at HQ... oh shoot!"

"What's wrong?" Sara asked, panic gripping her and making her chest tight with anxiety.

"They cut the trace when they moved us to this car - they're sending the feds to the place where we transferred!"

"We're not in the same car?" she asked. She fought to keep the bile from rising in her throat, disorientation adding to her nausea.

"They moved us - oh my God, they're not gonna find us..."

"Call them back quickly! Get the trace running again, they've gotta find us, Nick!"

She didn't have to ask twice. When Nick mentioned the trace, he immediately pulled out his cell phone and brought it in front of him, the backlight illuminating the panic on his face. The screen was broken from when he had landed on his back pocket, after being rolled out of the trunk of the previous vehicle, but the light was still glowing, albeit a bit dimmer than before. Nick punched in the number for HQ and waited anxiously for somebody to pick up the phone. It rang once... twice...

"Come on, come on, pick up..." Nick muttered as he grabbed Sara's arm and squeezed it, partly to reassure her and partly to calm himself.

It rang three times... four times...

"Hello?"

"Oh thank God," Nick cried. "Can I speak to Gil Grissom?"

"I'm sorry, sir, you're breaking up... can you speak a little louder please?"

"Gilbert... Grissom," Nick emphasized, drawing out his syllables and increasing his volume.

There was nothing but static, and then Nick could make out some very faint words eminating from the earpiece of his phone.

"I'm... sir, but... and I ... would... day?"

"Can you hear me?" he shouted.

More static raged through the tiny earpiece, then the connection broke and the line fell silent.

"Are they tracing us?" asked Sara as Nick pulled the phone from his ear and pushed some keys frantically. Sara's heart sank when Nick let go of her arm and pulled the phone to his ear again, trying to establish a connection again.

"Hello? Hello? The line's dead."

"So, what now?" asked Sara softly.

"The screen said long distance, and the call was out of range..."

"We're not in Kansas anymore."

A/N: Review, por favor


	5. Hope and Pray

Brass stepped onto the pavement from his car and stepped towards the F.B.I. agents milling around the warehouse area of a western California city where the Las Vegas crime lab had traced the last of Nick's calls to. He approached an agent, holding out his badge. 

"What've we got?" he asked.

"Got some agents in there, but so far it's clear. They part of your team?" asked the agent, knowing the full situation and wanting to find the missing CSIs as soon as possible.

"More or less," replied Brass with a humourless smirk.

The agent didn't reply as he listened to a call coming over his walkie-talkie.

"The building's clear, there's no sign of them," the agent reported to Brass.

"Wait, are you sure?" he asked, his voice the only thing that gave away a hint of his concern.

"They're gone. But we did find a car that holds evidence of human cargo in the trunk, we've pulled samples to match."

"So you found a car that may have held our CSIs but you can't find, well, our CSIs?"

"That's what it looks like," replied the agent sorrowfully. "We also found tire tracks leading away from the warehouse area, they may have been transferred to another vehicle."

"Thanks for your help, anyways," Brass muttered. He turned and walked back to his car, pulling out his cell phone as he went. He dialed Grissom's cell as he slid into the front seat and put the keys in the ignition.

"Grissom, hey. Didn't find 'em. Naw, but they got some tire tracks... yeah, kay. Alright, see ya soon."

Grissom swore under his breath, closed his phone and shook his head sadly. Greg looked anxiously in the distance, and Grissom looked up and shook his head 'no' dejectedly. Greg's head dropped and he returned to his work. Grissom removed his glasses and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. He replaced his glasses and looked around, then packed up his kit. He knew he couldn't call Nick because the kidnappers would without a doubt confiscate his phone. Brass had no information. The crime scene cleanup crew were about to take over. There was nothing left to do except hope and pray for the safety of Nick and Sara.

Warrick sighed.

"Why are we stuck on Grissom's case?" he moaned.

Catherine rolled her eyes. Grissom gave no reason why they were suddenly called in to take over his case, and when she arrived at HQ and was informed that Nick wouldn't join she and Warrick, she became even more upset.

"Bureaucracy," she answered with annoyance.

The Denali pulled up to a large building with a warehouse look. The looming, squat, industrial brick building hummed with power use, and a red light flashed over a doorway further down the wall from where the CSIs had parked. Warrick and Catherine stepped out of the large SUV into the hot midday desert sun. Catherine brought her shades down from their perch on her hair to cover her eyes, and she raised an eyebrow at the building as Warrick brought the twin silver crime scene kits from the trunk of the massive vehicle. Warrick handed Catherine her case and both headed towards the front door.

"So this is the largest production studio in Las Vegas," Warrick said after a low whistle.

"Seems overrated," Catherine shrugged.

"And girls are dyin' to get in."

"I wish you hadn't said that."

The pair walked briskly through the filming lot to reach the main entrance. Catherine pushed open the front door and was hit with a wave of conditioned air and the smell of an eclectic mix of foods. She walked up to the concierge's desk, followed by Warrick, and she removed her sunglasses. The receptionist looked up from a styrofoam plate of noodles, salad and chicken, placed the plate and her fork on the desk and looked up expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, hi, I'm Catherine Willows, this is Warrick Brown, we're with the Las Vegas crime lab, we'd like to see Ms. Vanderton's dressing room."

The receptionist double-clicked something on the computer in front of her, stood up and came around to the front of the desk.

"Follow me," she said passively, and set off at a brisk trot down the hall. Catherine looked at Warrick with her eyebrows raised; he shrugged and followed the receptionist.

The three walked through a catwalk that was walled in glass and flanked on either side by luxurious gardens. Speed-walking to keep up with the concierge's pace, the CSIs passed at least two dozen doors before stopping short as the receptionist took a keychain from around her wrist and selected a key, wedging it into the lock and turning it sharply.

"The other CSIs came by earlier, last night actually, and they took pictures and fingerprints and everything so I guess it's okay that mine are on the door..."

"Are they inside the room?" asked Warrick.

"They shouldn't be..." the petite woman answered, looking slightly shocked that he would dare ask. "I've never been in there, so no, I guess not."

"Could we print you, just incase?" asked Catherine, setting down her kit.

"I'm really busy, I'd just like to get back to work, and I-"

"It's okay, Miss, it'll only take a minute," Warrick assured her.

"Fine," the receptionist sighed, nodding her assent. Warrick set his kit down as well and pulled out an inkpad and a sheet of paper with boxes indicating the appropriate finger. He set to work printing the woman while Catherine pulled on her gloves and turned the doorknob, entering the room. Grissom and Greg had been there first, as had David, and so the body was gone. Clean-up hadn't yet arrived, however, so there were plenty of samples for Catherine and Warrick to gather for themselves. Catherine started with the aortal spatter which was flecked against the cream-coloured wall and window opposing the door. She imagined the young starlet lounging on the futon by the window, perhaps going over a script, when suddenly the door flew open and the killer or killers trouped in, delivering one fatal shot to the victim's neck. Catherine frowned; it didn't seem very likely for the alert concierge to miss an unknown person charging into the studios with a gun in their hand. Catherine had read the report from Grissom, and she knew that there were two bullets found; one in the girl and one in the wall. The bullets were .22-cal, so the gun was probably easily concealable, and there were no metal detectors in the entrance. Still, the receptionist wouldn't have let just anybody in... Catherine set her kit on the floor and went back to talk to the receptionist before Warrick released her. She found her just as she was leaving.

"Excuse me, miss? Miss? Could I have a word with you, please?" The receptionist froze and turned around.

"Yes, miss... Willows?"

"Who exactly came in or out those front doors yesterday?"

"All of them?"

"If you don't mind."

"Oh, I'm only on duty in the afternoon, sorry."

"That's okay, miss," Catherine said while nodding. "Our coroner put the time of death in the afternoon, probably around four or five o'clock, apparently she was only found at eight when she didn't show up to the nighttime shoot. Do you remember anybody particularly..." Catherine narrowed her eyes and looked up in thought, "strange, coming in anywhere between, oh say, twelve to five?"

"Um, well, I remember a director, a few of the talent, the caterers and some press. That's about it," she shrugged. "Can I get back to..."

"Do you have security tapes we could look at, see if you missed anyone on your list?" asked Warrick, storing the fingerprint I.D. kit.

"Sure, you want the front desk?"

"We want all the entrances," said Catherine. They were probably far more useful than this secretary's memory.

"All right... I'll have them at the front desk by the time you leave," said the concierge, and she scurried off through the maze of windows that composed this end of the building.

"Got anything from in there?" asked Warrick, nodding his head towards the dressing room.

"Well, I noticed all the other dressing rooms have nametags on them. Why wouldn't the star of the show get a plaque, too?"

"Maybe someone tore it off in spite?" Warrick suggested.

"Could be... I'll print the area around the top of the door where the other actors have their nameplates. Whoever pulled it off couldn't have done it without leaving evidence," Catherine said.

"Unless they were wearing gloves," suggested Warrick, holding up one gloved hand and waggling his fingers.

"We better hope they weren't," Catherine sighed, and she walked back into the room to gather her fingerprinting materials to brush the door with.

Warrick started on the inside of the dressing room. He didn't find much, however, other than the blood spray on the wall, because most of the microscopic evidence had already been collected and was waiting for them at the lab. He took a few pictures of the blood, and of the bullet hole in the wall, and looked out the window to see if there was a chance that the crime had been witnessed. The window opened onto an enclosed garden area with trees and assorted shrubbery obstructing the view beyond about seven meters. No other windows opened onto the courtyard, and so the only witnesses were going to be the security cameras. They'd have to make stills of everyone who came or went and show them to the receptionist to see if she could point out any intruders.

Warrick put his camera and blood-covered bindle back into his field kit and walked out of the dressing room.

"Nothin' here to see," he remarked, and Catherine nodded.

"Same out here. We better process the evidence the guys got for us back at the lab, and then pick up where they left off."

"Where did they leave off?"

"Vanderton's house."

A/N: Review, por favor (sry i just got back from Cuba and enjoy the spanish language :D )


	6. The Waiting Game

"So..." Sara yawned. All the adrenaline pumping through her body was beginning to subside, and the aftereffects were making themselves known. Her fatigue was contagious; Nick soon found himself yawning and beginning to nod off as well. Suddenly, Nick started and scrabbled to the wall that separated them from the main cavity of the car. 

"What're you doing?" Sara asked him, feeling closed-in after Nick scrambled around her to get to the other side of the trunk.

"Shh... listen!"

Nick pressed his ear up to the partition and strained to catch parts of the heated conversation unfolding in the car. He was trying to listen for anything that would give him a clue as to where they were, who they were and where they were going.

"Nick, I don't-"

"Shh!"

Unfolding in the front part of the car was a conversation the likes of which would make mothers worldwide cover their children's ears and tut in disapproval. The foursome had taken off their ski masks and were arguing over what they were to do now - they weren't planning on taking hostages and didn't know to what extent their car-swapping had been in their favour; the feds had lost the trail and nearly given up hope. They were now processing the tire marks, but they weren't expecting any positive results. The gang were now heading back towards Las Vegas to their new headquarters, a large mansion their intrepid leader had somehow inherited. But back to the topic of origin - what to do with the bleeding bodies in their trunk?

"I say we oughta dump 'em," one guy suggested.

"Yeah? Where, genius? Don't you watch T.V.? They can find people just by, like, a hair or somethin'. Besides, the dude was carryin' a piece an' a badge, he's a copper fer sure. They'll be lookin' for 'im, and we can't let 'em find 'im or else we're gonna get it."

"So what do YOU suggest, Rocky?"

"Uhhhh..."

"Wow, whatta guy. So glad you're on our side."

"Shut up, Snake, I haven't heard anythin' brilliant from your pie-hole!"

"Whatever, stupid. How's about we call Petey and see what he's got up his sleeve?"

"No way, man, he'll kill us! We wasn't s'posed to take any peoples, an' now we gots two in the trunk! We screwed up big time, there's no way I'ma tell Petey we got two more people wit' us than we left with."

"So what, we're just gonna show up with 'em at his door and be like 'hey Petey-boy, here's the profits from the robbery, hope ya like 'em'?"

"Okay, so we gotta tell 'im."

"Thanks, Einstein."

"Who?"

"You, stupid."

"But my name's not-"

"Whatever."

"The chick's pretty hot, huh?"

"My name's not-"

"Rocky, for the love of Hades will you SHUT UP? We're discussin' important things here, okay?"

"What, the chick?"

"Yeah, gotta problem? Didn't think so. So anyways, what'll we do with 'er? I mean, once we get rid of the dude, somehow."

There were malevolent chuckles all around, and Sara tensed up after hearing this, having also pressed her ear to the divider between the trunk and the car. Nick put a protective arm around her waist and kept listening, the dirt roads beneath them making it harder to hear.

"How we gonna do that? Thought you said we couldn't dump 'em."

"Yeah true, but what if we kill 'im an' just leave 'im?"

"In Petey's place?"

"Yeah, it's effin' huge, it won't matter."

"Um, it's kinda gross..."

"Don't be a pansy, Einstein."

"That's not my name!"

"Hey, hey, we're back in Nevada guys, we'll be at Pete's place in like, fifty minutes. We better figure out what the hell we're doing here."

"I'ma call Pete."

"No way man! We're dead!"

"It's better if he at least knows we got 'em. 'Sides, maybe he knows what to do, you lot of good-for-nothings."

"Oh shut up Spike, you didn't help at all, either."

"Hey hey, keep it down, I'm tryin'a make a call, here? 'Lo, Pete? Yeah, we got like a thou. Yeah, I know it's not much but this was just training anyways, right? Yeah whatevs. Hey, um, listen Pete, we, uh, we got a bit of a problem here... Well, define "taking care of it"... uh huh. Naw, we - what? Okay yeah we kinda have some, uh, some hostages here..."

There was a shout from the other line audible even to Sara's sensitive hearing in the trunk.

"Okay okay okay! What do we do? ...Pete? Uhh, what about... THE BASEMENT! It's perfect! It ain't finished, right? So we gots lotsa poles 'n stuff to tie 'em up to? Great. So then what? You've killed people before, right? Is it better to leave 'em where ya killed 'em, or hide 'em? Right. Okay, well, we just got outta California, so we'll be awhile still. Yep. See ya in like, forty-five minutes. Yep. Ciao."

"Well?"

"Good ol' Jackson's got our backs again, boys."

"Damn. For a minute I thought we were toast."

"Nah, Petey's gonna take care of everythin' for us."

"Sweet deal."

Sara's stomach lurched and she fell away from the wall. Silent sobs wracked her body and tears began to fall incessantly down her cheeks. Nick came away from the wall as well, and drew Sara's shaking body close to his to offer as much support and comfort as was possible in such circumstances. Tears of his own mingled with hers as he pressed his cheek to hers and whispered to her in sympathy; it was a strange and devestating feeling to know that you were going to die so soon. Sara brought her hand up to her face and tried futilely to wipe her face dry, but her tears kept coming and there was little she could do. She felt so vulnerable and afraid, and so extremely disgusted that anybody could do this to another living being, to take away what made them equal; their life.

Nick remembered his conversation with Grissom, and how, despite the situation, Grissom had managed to stay true to his emotionless self and had told Nick what to do in these cases. For once, Nick was glad of Grissom's cold-fish approach to life. Nick urged Sara gently out of the way, rolled to face the back of the car, and took a forceful swing with his leg at the area of the taillight. If he'd managed to kick it out, their kidnappers could be pulled over for not having it working, and they could alert the arresting officer as to where they were. Nick wasn't sure if he'd kicked it hard enough, so he wound up and tried it again. There was a distinctive thud, and a noise like glass breaking. Good enough, Nick supposed. He turned back to Sara.

"We need to make a plan."

Sara didn't respond. Nick had changed from panic-stricken to alert and take-charge in seconds, trying to protect Sara, but Sara couldn't even manage to stop shaking. She sniffled and checked her breathing, but she still shook pitifully. Nick realized she was in no state to think of planning ahead, but he knew if they didn't it could spell out their doom. He gently wiped her tear-streaked face with his sleeve and she struggled to suppress another sob. He wrapped his arms around her and she recoiled slightly. Hurt, Nick backed off, but was surprised to find Sara reaching out and seeking his touch again. Suddenly realizing he must have accidentally touched her wound, his arms carefully encircled her again, and she let out a sigh in his ear. He stroked her hair.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.

Sara sniffled. "Could be better," she whispered back.

"Don't worry, Sar, I won't let 'em hurt you," he promised, hoping against hope that it would be true.

"Can we open the trunk?" Sara asked weakly.

"What?"

"Can we open the trunk?" she repeated, hoping she didn't sound stupid for asking.

"We can try," Nick responded, turning away from Sara to feel along the hatch for something that would grant them freedom. He felt a latch, and a mechanism that kept the trunk closed, and he pushed and prodded along the edge of it but it remained stubbornly closed. He slammed his fist in frustration, but nothing moved aside from the blood rushing to the point of contact on his hand. He rubbed his sore hand, disappointed that he couldn't manage to free them.

"Looks like we're stuck," he sighed sadly.

"Well, what can we do to escape once we get to where we're going?" asked Sara, recovering slightly and trying to wrap her head around what was happening and what was going to happen.

"We can dummy up and escape when they try to carry us into the house," Nick suggested.

"So, we can pretend we're still unconscious and then just, what, get up and run away? Don't you think they'll follow us?"

"That, and, you're in no condition to be running anywhere," Nick pointed out. It was true; Sara's wound had left her too weak to do anything but rest.

"So now what?" Sara asked defeatedly.

"I guess... I guess we wait."

A/N: Review, por favor


	7. Million Dollar Rocks

Warrick pulled the Denali up into the driveway of a multi-million dollar mansion, undid his seatbelt and killed the ignition. He pulled his sunglasses from his face and screwed up his eyes in scrutiny of the house; it was elaborate and ornate, it was enormous, and what was more, it was fantastically well kept. The green grass was cropped to an exact length throughout the entire area of the extensive front lawn, and flower beds to either side of the walkway leading to the house were heavily laden with a kaleidoscope of rare and exotic flora. The path itself was outlined by large chunks of raw amethyst and the rocks that composed it were a veritable embodied prism; it was as if light energy had been converted to matter and was sprinkled liberally among a miniaturized version of the Amazon jungle. Warrick blinked and slid his dark shades back onto his face, hiding the awe in his emerald green eyes. He glanced over at Catherine who was also gazing raptly across the lush front lawn, her mouth slightly open and her head tilted in disbelief. 

"How did a virtually unknown actress pay for a house like this?" she asked, implying that Warrick reiterate the facts.

"Her ex-husband's money," he said, emphasizing the fact that indeed, the money had not belonged to Grace Vanderton before her divorce.

"Ahh-ha," Catherine voiced while nodding, shaking herself out of the reverie that the grand house had captured her in and removing her seatbelt. She opened the car door and hopped out, her thin stilettos clacking on the newly inlain imported stone pattern on the driveway. Warrick followed suit and took his time strolling past Catherine up the pathway to the front porch, stopping only when he noticed Catherine standing in front of the walkway.

"S'wrong?" he called over his shoulder.

"My heels... This gravel's tricky," she called back, taking an uncertain step onto the vibrantly coloured crushed rock; her ginger steps definately a switch from her usual finesse and regal air. Every step she took sunk her deeper and deeper into the swirling, mobile mass of stones.

"Why d'you gotta wear those stupid things to work?" Warrick mumbled under his breath. He turned around and ambled back to Catherine, who was journeying forwards slowly as she navigated through the waist-high rainforest that was previously Grace Vanderton's front walkway. Warrick turned as he reached Catherine and grabbed her right hand with his, then slipped his left arm around her waist for support. He sighed and rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and Catherine blushed sheepishly as she continued to progress across the path.

Finally, Catherine and Warrick reached the front porch (which was, thankfully, completely solid) and Warrick released his hold on Catherine. Catherine stood still for a moment as Warrick crossed the porch, regaining her composure and trying to figure out where that strange feeling of disappointment came from as soon as Warrick had let go of her. She raised her eyebrows and smirked, a gesture she made when she was unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion, and she followed Warrick to the finely detailed front door.

"Last time Gris was here he claims the door was unlocked," Warrick informed Catherine as he rang the doorbell.

"Maybe Grace's brother was expecting someone," Catherine shrugged as the door swung open, without the click of a lock as both of the CSIs noted.

"Hello, can I help you?" asked Grace's brother as he allowed the door to open fully and stood in the doorframe.

"Yes, hi, we're with the crime lab, this is Warrick brown," -Warrick raised a hand in greeting- "and I'm Catherine Willows. Gil Grissom and Greg Sanders visited you previously."

"Yes, I remember them. Pleased to meet you, though not under these circumstances. I'm Peter Ryerson, Grace's brother."

"Ryerson? Wasn't Grace's last name Vanderton?" asked Warrick, stepping into the house after Catherine. Catherine's eyes roamed around the spacious foyer and up to the chandelier feet above her head.

"Stage name..." she muttered to Warrick dreamily as she took in the expanse of the house. It was by far the largest she had ever seen.

"Yes, her stage name was Vanderton. Our mother's maiden name," Peter explained, half smiling.

"Your mother know about your sister yet?" Warrick asked, concerned.

"No, she died last year. Severe complications from anti-depressive medications," Peter explained hastily. He seemed rather anxious, Warrick noted, although it had been known to happen with family members of victims.

"Very sorry for your losses," Warrick continued. "Is your father..."

"He died as well, his death was the reason my mother was on antidepressants in the first place. DON'T! -touch that, please, Ms. Willows, that's, that's extremely delicate," Peter said nervously as Catherine put down a vase in alarm.

"Apologies, sir," Catherine said, walking from the living area towards the two men still standing in the foyer. "Mr. Ryerson, if you don't mind me asking, was this house left to you in your sister's will?"

"Actually, no, no, it was left to her ex-husband, after all, it was his money in the first place. I'm just staying here until he gets back from Milan. I've already called him to let him know about... about Gracie..."

Catherine's eyebrows rose. 'Motive for the ex,' she thought to herself, and by the look on Warrick's face he thought the same.

"Thank you very much, sir, you've been a great help," Catherine announced as she moved towards the front door.

"I have?" Peter asked, shocked.

"Yes, sir, you have," Warrick added. "Our condolences, again."

"Thanks," Peter said meekly as he shut the door when the CSIs left.

After another episode between Catherine's shoes and a particular gravel patch, Catherine and Warrick were back on the road, this time headed in from the field to the lab.

"Man, where's Nick when we need him to process evidence?" Warrick asked with annoyance. It wasn't that he particularly minded processing, it was simply unlike Nick to skip a working day and only let Grissom know. Come to think of it, it was also rather unusual for Grissom to withhold Nick's whereabouts. Or maybe it wasn't unusual... After so many years working with him, Warrick still couldn't figure out the complex workings of his boss' mind.

"I have no idea where he is, all Grissom told me is that he had an emergency and couldn't come in for awile," Catherine replied, shrugging.

"I hope he's okay," Warrick said in a sigh, opening a crinkly brown paper bag and removing a couple of baggies. He pulled up one in particular, frowning, then double-checked the crime scene photographs to be sure of his possible finding.

Catherine, sensing the potential for a lead, craned her neck around from the petri dish encasing one of the bullets and frowned in sympathy. "What is it?"

"These rocks..."

"Those rocks," Catherine said with disgust, eyeing the pesky pebbles that had caused her to question her balance and lose part of her dignity along the path to the victim's house. "Evidence from the house?"

"No, from the dressing room," Warrick replied, still narrowing his eyes at the bag he held at eye level.

"So? It was her house and her dressing room, those stones have a right to be there," Catherine rebutted, knowing Warrick would prove his theory in the next moment.

"That's what I thought, too, but look at these pictures," he said, setting the bag down and sweeping his arm to encompass the layout table. "Look at her shoes."

"Gucci leather stilettos, probably the real things considering her ex-husband's affluence," Catherine murmured, still waiting on the figurative edge of her seat for Warrick's steel-trap mind to catch what she'd let escape.

"Right. Probably had the same motor impediments as you, across that pathway of hers." Here he paused, and withdrew from a bag the aforementioned Gucci stilettos. He held them out to Catherine.

"The real things, all right," Catherine muttered appreciatively. "So? Are you comparing my lapse of grace to Grace?"

"Not in the least. You haven't walked much since we last hit that pathway, could you do me a favour?"

"Sure..." replied Catherine hesitantly.

"Take off your shoes."

"No way, do you know what's been spilled on this floor?"

"Take off one shoe, then."

Catherine sighed and leaned her weight on her right foot, bending her left leg up and catching the shoe in her hands, removing it and handing it to Warrick while maintaining perfect balance on her right foot. "Whatever floats your boat."

"Look. Your shoes and her shoes? They have no treads."

Catherine began to catch on to what Warrick was saying.

"And I haven't tracked any pebbles of that size around the lab," Catherine put in.

"Exactly. Neither shoe has a decent enough tread depth to trap a pebble the size of the ones we got from her dressing room and transfer it a long distance, and it's not as if she'd just randomly take a handful of pebbles to work. I don't think there's a day for that."

"But these shoes were only worn today, what if she'd worn different shoes to set before? Ones that could keep the gravel in long enough to transfer?"

"This was her first shooting day, remember?"

Catherine smiled, her catlike eyes revealing her excitement at finding something significant. Her smile faded slightly and she cleared her throat while glancing downwards towards her hovering left foot.

"Right. Shoe." Warrick said hastily as he dropped to the floor and placed the shoe near Catherine's foot for her to slide into. He stood up again.

"So who has been on or near Grace's front path long enough to gather such a significant amount of transferable debris?"

"And who could both Grace and the secretary trust enough to let on set without a fuss?"

Both smiled and said in unison, "Peter."

"Peter! My man!"

"Spike," said the young man almost dubiously, stepping further inside the house to allow the burly barely-post-teen in through the door. He shut the door behind him. "The others can stay in the car for now. What's the deal?"

"Well, you know about the whole..." he gesticulated, "...thing, and we don't know what to do."

The two men moved through the anteroom into the larger living space and sat down facing each other on sofas cheated inwards towards both each other and the television. Pete leaned back, his dirty shoes on the fine upholstery and his arm slung obnoxiously along the back of the couch. Spike seemed a little less casual, sitting up at attention, not leaning either forward or back.

"I said I'd take care of it, didn't I? Didn't I?" Peter took his arm down.

"Well, yes, but..."

"But what? What seems to be the problem here? Was I not clear enough? Okay, here goes again: we tie them up, we get what we want from them, we kill them. Is that such a problem?" Pete snarled, his blue eyes hardened and narrowed into slits. He leaned forwards and rested his bent elbows on his knees. "Here's how we do it. We toughen you lily-livers up by makin' each of you give 'em a good thrashing. Then, we tie 'em up in the basement. No water for two days, no food for four. If they've still got a fighting spirit between the two of 'em, you, my prodigé, you will swiftly and venomously remove it. Are we clear so far?"

"But how do we keep the feds off? The dude's got a frickin' badge!"

"They lost the trail." Pete said coldly. "You did switch cars, right?"

"Yeah, I still totally don't get-- oh wait! They're lookin' for a silver car, the one we ditched! They don't KNOW about the blue one--"

"Thank you, Edison, for enlightening me. Now. Are you ready, wingman?"

"As ever, chief."

A/N: Review, please! (I know, plain old English)


	8. You Mean Too Much to Me

Greg bounded hurriedly down the hall from an evidence room to supervisor Gil Grissom's office. He clutched a sheet of white 8 1/2" by 11" paper tightly in his right hand, swinging it with every step he took in a full-out run. He rounded the corner and crashed straight into an office clerk, nearly upturning his wheeled basket of supplies; the clerk yelled angrily but the sounds never reached Greg's ears. Grissom's office was in sight and Greg was tunnel-visioned, never ceasing in speed or seeing any of the other innocent bystanders he nearly involved as victims in triage. Greg skidded to a halt abruptly, slamming his hands flat onto Grissom's office desk, crushing the piece of paper under one of his sweaty palms. 

Grissom merely looked up, his face's only emotion one of stern puzzlement.

"Yes?" he asked expectantly, waiting wordlessly for an excuse to come from Greg. Peering around the frenzied CSI out his office door, Grissom found Greg's wake of disgruntled law enforcement officers shaking their heads in digsust, the breeze created by Hurricane Sanders only now catching up to them.

Greg took a deep breath. "OkaysoIrantheprintsfromthecashregisteronAFISandnothingcameupbutIcomparedthemtotheonesfromthecarwefoundatthesceneandtheymatch..."

"That can be expected, Greg," Grissom replied patiently, having miraculously understood Greg's tirade.

"BUT..." Greg continued, "The car belongs to one Mr. Peter Jackson, out-of-work actor." he finished, a smug smile on his lips.

"Is this relative?" Grissom asked, feigning ignorance to prompt Greg to explain further.

"Oh, yeah," Greg smiled, the smugness reaching his eyes. "Mr. Jackson served time for several gang-related incidents including arson, robbery, and kidnapping. Check this out," Greg said, his cockiness coming through in his voice. Grissom grabbed the sheet from Greg, smoothed it out on his desk with his palm and slipped on his glasses to view the results. Next to a readout of data, a picture of a brown-haired, hazel-eyed young man stared back at him. One eyebrow raised, and Grissom's emotionless face shone with what could have been hope. He handed the result page back to Greg.

"Let's go have a nice, friendly conversation with Peter, shall we?"

"Jackson? Or..." Greg paused dramatically, "Humber?"

Sara and Nick had been lying in the trunk for some time now, their muscles beyond tense and their states of mind beyond terror. The car had stopped, and both Nick and Sara had arranged each other with ropes tied loosely behind the other's back, so it would seem to anybody else that they were still rendered helpless. For the past twenty minutes, they had done nothing but lie, waiting for their ride in the trunk to end in whatever manner it was destined to end. The worst part of any event was the wait, as they had both been thinking, and so while waiting they were forced to endure psychological trauma in a way that their inept captors would never be intelligent enough to think of inflicting intentionally. Sara let out a whimper which startled Nick after the extended silence, both in the trunk and in the cab of the car. Nick nudged her with his shoulder, his hands loose enough to escape the bonds but incapable of retying them properly.

"Don't worry, Sar," Nick whispered. "We'll get out of this, I promise you."

"How can you promise?" Sara asked woefully. "How do you know?"

"I don't," Nick answered truthfully, "but I swear to God that I will protect you. I'd never be able to live with myself if I didn't. You mean too much to me," he said, sniffling slightly.

Sara barely had time to register the possible implications of Nick's phrasing before the lock on the hatch clicked with the assault of a prying key. Nick kissed Sara quickly on the lips, to Sara's shock, and closed his eyes immediately, feigning unconsciousness once more. Sara followed suit, trying to get her racing pulse to slow and her face to stop showing the surprise it had registered at the contact with Nick. Just as she had succeeded in making her face blank, the backs of her eyelids turned red, the effect of light shining against the capillaries as the darkness of the trunk was removed. The light was dull, however; not desert sunlight, but rather a streetlamp's yellowy glow. Sara wondered for the first time what time it was.

Sara felt the trunk heave and buck, then bounce upwards as Nick was removed from the trunk, and by the sounds of it, he was removed rather roughly by at least three people. Sara's mind raced with worry and anxiety; she hoped Nick was okay, and hoped that they would make it through whatever lay in store for them. She was selfishly glad she wasn't alone. Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed her by the waist and she was flung over a shoulder hurriedly, the trunk of the car slamming and the car being pulled into a garage. She bounced along, barely hindering the progess of her abductor, in extreme discomfort from the position she was in and the way her movement affected the wound in her shoulder. She remained strong, however. She needed to pretend to be unconscious to avoid serious inflicted injury, and the temptation to fight back, to kick and scream, to open her eyes at least was great. She remembered, however, the Greek legend where looking cost a man the love of his life to the devil. Self restraint would carry her far.

Voices murmured and doors were opened, stairs were descended and large objects were scraped across floors. Nick hoped and prayed even that Sara was alright; his base in science often cast doubt on the results and effectiveness of prayer, but he figured he had nothing to lose except for Sara. Now that his confession was out, albeit an ambiguous one (lest he need to revert to misinterpretation for his own protection), he could only hope that Sara held the same feelings and could express them inambiguously. He had probably left her very uncertain, and as soon as they got where they were going he would progress with his thought train, forward if Sara was on the same wavelength and backwards if she didn't think of him that way. It amazed Nick how far removed from the situation he was until he felt himself being lowered onto a cold cement floor with a colder metal pole pressing vertically into his spine. He opened an eye carefully to see three figures looming over him against a dim light source, with a fourth behind them carrying Sara. Sara's eyes opened as well and she opened them wider when she saw a glint of light off of Nick's supposedly closed eyes. Nick opened his eyes fully, to the shock of his captors, and he stood up and removed the loose binding from his wrists, snapping his right fist around and catching a wiry guy in the chin unexpectedly. Sara brought her arms out of her ropes as well, and, using as much strength as she could, she raised her hands together over her head and thumped her captor in the small of his neck. A loud, agitated cry of shock filled the small room and a sickening thud was heard shortly thereafter as Sara fell to the ground. Nick clipped a taller man with a roundhouse to the ear and he bulldozed his way to where Sara had fallen. She picked herself up as Nick got to her and they pounded up the plywood staircase together as fast as they could, their surprise attack having caught the four men in the basement completely off guard. Sara could almost feel the desert air on her skin when she and Nick were stopped abruptly in the doorway leading out of the unfinished basement by a man with mousey brown hair and leering, sinister hazel eyes.

"Stay awhile, won't you? I've a lovely big house here and haven't had a housewarming, perhaps you'd be so kind as to initiate one for me?" the man inquired, his voice laced with a snide confidence that he held the upper hand.

Nick tried to punch him, but his arm was stopped in mid-air. Sara was frozen to the spot, and even if she had had the capacity to run, she would have stood by Nick anyway. Nick tried a punch again but was stopped once more, this time by a needle in his thigh, injecting him with enough codeine to stop a charging elephant. Nick crumpled to the floor almost instantaneously, waking Sara out of her trance. Her eyes opened wide, pupils dilated in fear, and she managed to get her motor skills active again. Her escape attempt was futile, however, as she was snatched out of her trajectory and held in place by the man who had injected Nick. Her arm was wrenched painfully behind her back as she struggled, and her brow creased with pain, but she would not make a single noise to indicate that her attacker had any effect on her. She heard the plywood stairs groaning in protest as four men stormed up through the basement, one with a bruise on his chin as Sara noted with some satisfaction. The man holding her ordered the others to take Nick downstairs again, then squeezed her against him tighter until the pain in her shoulder made her cry out despite her will not to. She felt the man's lips on her neck and she shivered with disgust as a needle was stuck into the back of her thigh as well and her eyes slipped shut.

A/N: Review, please.


	9. Acid Test

Catherine and Warrick pulled up again to the fabulous Vanderton mansion, eerie but no less grand bathed in moonlight. Brass had joined them, as interviewing was in order, and he glanced up at the building, seemingly unimpressed. 

"Some digs," he said, flatly.

"If I lived here, I would never get tired of this place," Warrick commented wistfully.

"I would," Catherine replied dryly, casting a reproachful eye at the "sensible" shoes she had opted to wear on the visit this time. Sometimes she wondered if "sensible" was ancient Sanskrit for "Horribly ugly".

Warrick shook his head in wonderment at the female obsession with shoes, then unbuckled and hopped onto the interlocking brick driveway once more, joining Brass as he removed himself from the back seat of the Tahoe. Catherine followed suit, only this time she had no problems walking up the front path. She strode purposefully and with dignity up the front path ahead of Warrick and Brass, a woman with a mission.

This mission mainly involved getting the interview overwith so she could get out of these embarrassingly grotesque granny loafers and back into her stilettos, or maybe her brand new leather ankle-boots.

Once assembled on the front porch, the two CSIs waited as Brass rang the doorbell and stepped back. A light switched on and movement flickered behind the beveled glass. Several moments went by, and then the large front door swung open, a man with mousey brown hair standing looking disheveled in its place.

"Detective James Brass, LVPD, these are..."

"The two CSIs, yeah, I saw you before," he interrupted. "Heya James, I'm Pete." He extended a hand. Brass was unused to someone being so chipper less than twenty-four hours after they heard the news that their sister was dead, and so he took a moment to settle a strange feeling in his gut before returning the gesture. He was definately unused to people calling him by his full first name.

"Peter, we'd like to question you a bit more about your sister and your relationship with her," Catherine stated, eyeing the marble flooring. "Could we come in?" she asked sweetly.

An intangible look passed fleetingly over Peter's features and he put a hand to the back of his head, scratching nervously. "Uhh, I'd love to, guys, but I kinda have something going right now, it's not really a good time..." He began to close the door when Catherine stepped into the frame assertively and got right into Peter's face, the innocent facade never leaving her own.

"Well, Peter," she said in a low voice, "this case that we're working on involves your sister. Your parents are dead and you have no other living relations that we can find, you're the only one left. Wouldn't it be better for you and for your sister if you let us do our jobs and cooperated? Or would you rather have us ask you down at the station? Or, better yet," Catherine continued, now fully in the house with a bewildered Warrick and unflappable Brass on the front stoop, "How 'bout we arrest you here and now for obstruction of justice?"

"Woah, lady, calm down! What'd I do to you? I just said I was busy, s'all, never said you couldn't come in and ask me 'bout Gracie. Don't arrest me, man, come on in."

Warrick was noticing a strange change in Peter's manner of speaking from that afternoon. He spoke with less eloquence and seemed now just a young punk of a kid instead of the more mature man they had visited earlier that day.

As Brass and Warrick joined Catherine in the spacious anteroom, Brass' eyes did a minute sweep of his field of vision and discovered dirty footprints on the marble leading to the left and under a white wooden door with light escaping from the gaps around the frame.

"Mr. Humber, could you explain to me what those dirty footprints are doing on your sister's white marble floor?"

Footprints? Thought Warrick and Catherine. They hadn't been there earlier that day.

"Yeah, sure, my sister had some contracters comin' in to renovate the basement. S'unfinished." Pete replied casually.

"Then... why is the light still on, and why weren't those footprints here this afternoon when we paid you our first visit, Mr. Humber? If they're there now that means they were hired after your sister's death, you do realize she can't have hired them, right?" Catherine asked, her brain yelling at her that they got him.

"She called them before she died, the basement was the only part of the house she didn't like. I figured I'd let the workers keep going, after all, it was what Gracie wanted..." he trailed off.

"Would you mind if we asked them a few questions?" Warrick asked.

"Sure, go ahead," Peter relied easily, not missing a beat. Brass pulled out a notebook and pen and began to question Peter - formally, this time.

Warrick and Catherine walked over to the white door, Catherine missing the satisfyingly authoritative click of heels. Pulling on a latex glove, Catherine opened the knob, carefully avoiding any areas where she may have been destroying prints. Although this was not a crime scene, Catherine just wanted to be careful.

The dingy staircase the door opened on to was an anticlimactic shock after the bright openness of the rest of the house. The pair descended the steps carefully, arriving at the bottom to find a cluster of four men in jeans and muscle tees huddled around a flimsy card table, blueprints spread over the edges. One of the men looked up and reached behind his back, Warrick reflexively placing his hand on his piece and Catherine holding her credentials out from the chain around her neck for display.

"LVPD, Criminalistics. How you boys doing?" Catherine asked with a smile. The jumpy man removed his hand from what Warrick had assumed was a weapon, thus prompting Warrick to release his gun. Catherine's greeting was met with a round of hellos, and the men returned to the task at hand, whatever that may be. Catherine took a look around the dank and depressing open area of the basement. "Man, they sure didn't spare any expenses down here, did they?"

One by one, the men headed up the stairs conspicuously. Warrick threw a look at Catherine who mirrored it, then pulled out her walkie-talkie to warn Brass of a suspicious convoy headed up from the basement. Warrick ambled off to have a look around the partition-free room. He jogged to the other end of the room and yelled back at Catherine, his baritone voice echoing off of the bare walls.

"Hey! You find anything strange about this place?"

"Like what?" Catherine shouted, her voice not nearly as imposing as the echo of Warrick's had been.

"Like square footage!" he yelled as he jogged back to the stairs. Soon he was standing beside Catherine, who had a puzzled look on her face.

"What do you mean?" she asked, shifting her weight onto her left foot and propping her arm on her right hip.

"This is a huge house," he said, his eyes flicking around the poorly-lit space.

"One for one," she replied.

"This basement? Not so huge."

"I see where you're getting at, but is it related to anything?" Catherine asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Maybe, maybe not," Warrick sighed, then took a glance over the perimeter of the room again. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he suggested that he and Catherine head upstairs to interview the basement workers. She complied.

Once at the top of the stairs, however, they found three of the workers and Peter corralled into a living room behind beveled French doors, Brass in an ajacent room interviewing a worker. That room was separated from the foyer by another set of glass doors, so Catherine and Warrick couldn't hear what Brass was saying, yet the bored expression on his face spoke to them of the naught he was drawing. Warrick opened a French door and pointed at a construction worker.

"You. Kitchen." he said curtly, and struck off in the direction he'd seen counter space winking at him from before. Catherine walked at a leisurely pace through the doors into a grand living area. She sat in an overstuffed upright chair across from the two remaining workers and Peter on the matching paisley couch. She'd long ago memorized what interview questions to use when, and began asking them casually, seeing if a group setting would coax information out of several subjects at once.

Brass sighed, flipped his notebook shut and gestured for the worker to stand up. He did so, and immediately struck off in the direction he came from, the living area. Brass massaged his temples for a moment with his hands on his knees, slumped over on an ottoman, then he rose, slipping his empty notebook back into an inner pocket in his suit jacket. He left the room as well and headed back to where he found Catherine talking easily with the two remaining workers and their newly rejoined buddy, as well as Peter. He observed for awhile, noting that Catherine's light tone was beguiling the men from hearing the undertones of suspicion, and moved from his leaning position in the doorframe when Warrick appeared with the fourth worker. Catherine threw a glance over her shoulder to see Brass and Warrick standing in the doorway. She turned back to her audience.

"Thank you all so much for your help. We appreciate it," she said, smiling kindly as she rose, then she turned and walked out the door between Brass and Warrick, the former and latter turning with her to leave. Peter stood up immediately.

"I'll see you to the door," he grinned, gesturing with his arms.

"Thanks, couldn't find it," Brass quipped dryly. Peter didn't seem put off in the least, and continued smiling until the trio was out the door. He let out a huge sigh of relief and turned to the "workers".

"Passed the second test, boys," he said with a malicious grin. The four men whooped and ran for the kitchen to reward themselves with beer.

A/N: I've run out of languages... review, please.


	10. It's Over

Grissom pulled the Tahoe into the interlocking brick driveway, surprised to see another darkly coloured department vehicle's backup lights flash. The other car stopped suddenly, and the back lights switched off. The driver's side door opened and a leg popped out, soon attatching itself to Catherine. She held her hand over her eyes to sheild herself from the headlights of Grissom's truck and walked towards the car. Grissom killed the engine and stepped out of the door. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked, not angrily, merely curious; conversationally, even.

"Chasing a lead," he replied, cocking his head annoyingly to the side in a half-shrug.

"Why are you here, specifically, I thought you dropped this case?" she questioned. If there was a legitimate reason to force her to take over his case with one member unaccounted for, she wanted to know it.

"I dropped your case. I'm here on my case." Grissom said patronizingly.

Catherine stepped closer to Grissom, who stood stock-still. "What," she asked in a low voice, "is your case?"

Grissom pondered how to phrase his next bombshell, then decided point-blank was best; Catherine could take it.

"Sara and Nick were kidnapped this morning at the diner. The owner of the car they were kidnapped in happens to be Peter Humber, the vic's sister. May I ask why you're here?"

Catherine stared at Grissom in shock. How could he say this all so easily, without a hint of emotion? Catherine's mouth hung slightly agape, and she put her hand to her head, leaning on Grissom's Tahoe. She looked up at Grissom.

"Oh... my... God... but you're at the wrong house. No... no, this is Peter Ryerson... and he can't have... he couldn't have... Oh my God, the construction workers!"

"The what?" Grissom asked, cocking his head inquisitively.

But Catherine was already running back up the driveway, tapping Warrick's window as she passed it, urging him to join her. He did, and Brass was soon after, with Grissom leaving the Tahoe and Greg jumping out once he saw everyone running toward the house.

Catherine reached the porch and rapped on the door violently.

"Peter! Open up, we need to ask more questions!"

Nobody answered. Catherine tried once more. Brass pulled out his gun and Warrick did the same, and each man ran to cover the sides of the house incase of flight. Greg pulled out his gun as well and shifted into Warrick's position to the left of the house, urging him to cover the backyard. Greg was sweating nervously, the gun feeling like a heavy poisonous snake that he could use to protect himself but could easily be turned against him. He shuddered and waited, straining to hear a noise other than Catherine knocking on the front door.

Grissom spoke quietly while Catherine continued to pound.

"He's got a record for gang related crimes, but no record of a sister. He's lying about the vic's relation to him. His car was used to kidnap Sara and Nick, but it was abandoned. We think he drove another car back to Vegas with Nick and Sara inside. You mentioned workers, but they may be newbie gang members posing undercover for you guys. My hypothesis is that the robbery where they took Nick and Sara was their initiation, and if we let them get away it'd be an in for them. How..."

But Grissom was cut off as the door swung open. Catherine glared at Peter.

"Where were you, could you not hear the door pounding?" she asked angrily.

"Sorry, man, I was on the john," Peter replied, nonchalance his specialty.

Grissom held out his badge.

"Remember me?" he asked, grinning. "Remember my phone call in the middle of our conversation?"

"Oh, yeah, so, you ever find those guys?"

"No," Grissom smiled, "But we will."

He began to move into the house, but Peter held his hand up and stepped backwards, deeper into the house.

"Woah, woah, woah, you're searching MY house for your CSIs? Don't you think that's a little farfetched? What the hell connects me to this case, the fact that you got the call in my house?"

"Actually, no, your car connects you to this case. Where are your workers?"

"They left by the back door..."

"Wrong answer," Catherine snapped. "We've an officer out back who hasn't called to announce them. Where," she continued, "are your workers? Or, more accurately, your gang's fresh meat?"

Peter's eyes widened, but he covered the motion of shock with a fake sneeze. Catherine rolled her eyes, not buying it for a minute. Catherine forced her way past Peter and marched back to the basement door, turning the handle thinking 'fingerprints be damned,' and threw open the door. She looked back at Grissom, who shrugged almost apologetically at Peter and followed after her.

Catherine descended the steps rapidly, almost glad to be wearing her 'sensible' shoes, and stood on the cement floor gazing across the basement. It was completely clear of any living being. Grissom called on his walkie-talkie for the three stationed outside to come in and look around the house for four suspicious, possibly armed men. As Catherine and Grissom began to walk the perimeter of the basement for any entrances to other rooms they may have missed in a visual check, their walkie-talkies reported one by one that the entirety of the upper levels of the house were clear. This confirmed Catherine's gut fear: that Warrick had been on to something, maybe a hidden room, with his observation of the difference in area between the main floor and the basement. If this theory was true, the four supposed gang members were probably hiding inside, possibly with Nick and Sara, unless... Catherine didn't want to think of the grim alternative.

Sara woke up whimpering, shaking as a result of the codeine borderline overdose. She felt the cold floor beneath her and slapped her palm around blindly in the dank darkness, trying to find Nick, who had been her safety net for the last few terror-filled hours. The sound of her hand slapping changed from sharp and staccato to dull and muffled and her hand felt warm; she had found Nick. She tried to call him but her throat was constricting, and she realized how very thirsty she had become. She tried again.

"Nick?" she managed to croak out weakly. She was suddenly aware of the feeling of being watched, and she sat up in the darkness, straining to find the source of her discomfort. It became very apparant to her once a set of blinding white fluorescent lights were switched on and the dark, contrasting silhouettes of four very large people loomed over her prone form on the ground. Nick lay nearby, not moving, but the rise and fall of his chest reassured Sara that he was still alive. The four men moved closer, boxing her in and blocking her view of the tiny crawlspace that the six people were crammed into. Sara tried to stand up, but her legs had pins and needles, and she merely moved herself backwards. One of the silhouettes bent down closer to her, and she backed up out of the ring of shadows until she hit Nick and lost the balance of her arms. She fell down on top of Nick and yelped loudly, scrambling over his body as the four shadows came closer.

Catherine heard a yelp from somewhere in the basement.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, hushed incase it happened again.

"Hear what?" Grissom asked, alerted to stay quiet from Catherine's strained whispers.

There was a muffled yelling from somewhere nearby...

Catherine spotted some condensation dripping slowly down a cement wall to her right.

"Condensation!"

She rushed over to the wall, Grissom joining her.

"Condensation on a wall means that there's a cavity of lower temperature behind it..." Grissom muttered, "...only, how do we get in?"

Catherine radioed Brass, who told her he had Peter in custody. Catherine explained their situation and less than three seconds later, Brass was marching Peter down the stairs in cuffs to explain how to get behind the wall, with Greg and Warrick following.

Peter stood adamantly, jaw set and clenched, refusing to talk.

"Hey Pete, tell us how to open up your hideaway here," Catherine prompted, aggressive. There was a voice at the back of her mind screaming for her to do something fast, before something happened to Sara and Nick.

"There's nothin' there," Peter said through tight lips.

Grissom stepped in. "See, that's where you're wrong. We have followed evidence regarding two cases to your home, which is actually the home of Grace Vanderton, who is actually not your sister. And here, we found condensation which is still running down your walls, indicating a closed room behind them. Judging by the fact that nobody has left your house, where there were four young men here not fifteen minutes ago who cannot be found, we're making an educated guess that they are behind this wall. We want to know why they're hiding, that's all," Grissom explained, patiently. "It's not you we're going to uncover here... is it?"

The two men stood locked in a tense standstill for a moment.

"If you don't tell us how to open up we're gonna have a backhoe here in fifteen minutes, tearing away at the ground outside until it hits the outside of the room behind this wall," Catherine warned. "Don't think we won't call 'em. Would you really want this house torn down because you finally shut up?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably, and Brass shook him by the handcuffs he was now sporting. "How 'bout we just arrest you for obstruction of justice?" Peter's only reply was a roll of his eyes.

A low-pitched yell permeated the damp air of the basement. Peter cringed.

"That's it, last chance to talk," Brass warned. Peter remained adamant in his silence. Catherine pulled out her walkie-talkie and radioed for a backhoe, while Grissom searched the dewy wall for a way in. Suddenly, he recalled the first time he was in this house, staring at the patch of sunlight across the tiles of the anteroom. In his mind's eye, he saw through the picture window casting the light into the backyard, a lush green like the front yard. There was a shed...

Grissom leapt suddenly up the stairs and into the house. He dashed through the kitchen, the dining room and the sitting room before finally finding the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. He pulled it open, gloves on so as not to add his prints to the collection that was sure to be there, and walked briskly across the grass to the wooden shed on the right hand side of the yard near the tall hedges that served as a fence. He turned the handle, but it was locked. Not having time to try anything else, he aimed a kick at the door and hit it just the right way; the doorknob came loose and he pulled the door open. Inside, instead of finding the interior of a regular shed, Grissom discovered a staircase that disappeared into darkness about seven feet down. He descended the steps quickly, gun out against his will, and was met at the bottom of the stairs by a frenzied and bloodied Nick, carrying Sara in his arms.

"Run!" Nick shouted as he hurried to get up the steps. Sara was unconscious.

Grissom needed no further prompting and turned immediately, taking the steps in twos, ready to slam the door to gain time after Nick and Sara had escaped. Nick sprinted up and out of the shed decoy onto the lawn, and rushed around the side of the house out to the front, where he stopped running and nearly collapsed, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He sat on the grass and set Sara down in his lap, brushing her hair out of her face. He looked down at her.

"Don't worry, it's over," he said to her unconscious form. "It's over... we're safe. We're safe..."

Grissom held himself against the door, bracing himself for the four men to come charging up the stairs, while he called Brass on the walkie-talkie to cancel the backhoe and call backup. Brass soon appeared at the sliding doors and crossed the yard, arriving beside Grissom as the door began to thump violently with the weight and force of the men trying to get out.

"We have to hold 'em there 'till backup comes," Brass said to Grissom, who nodded, straining to keep his full weight against the door. Brass joined him, both men with backs holding the feeble wooden structure against the vicious blows the door was receiving from the other side.

Catherine rushed upstairs soon after Brass had taken off, leaving Warrick and Greg holding Peter in custody. Warrick restrained himself from beating the pompousness right off of this twisted guy's face for doing what he did to Nick and Sara. Soon, they could hear sirens cutting through the night air as backup arrived to cuff the four that Grissom found, and ambulences came with them to attend to Nick and Sara. Greg pushed Peter towards the stairs as two officers descended them, checking the building. They spotted Peter in cuffs and read him his rights as they walked him back up the stairs. Warrick and Greg jogged up after them, anxious to see how Nick and Sara were doing.

Catherine trained her gun on the shed door that Brass and Grissom were preparing to release. On the count of three, they nodded and each ducked and rolled in opposite directions as four bloodied men stumbled onto the cool grass of the spacious backyard. They rose to their feet, miserably putting their hands behind their heads as they lined up for the officers to arrest them for kidnapping and malice. Relieved, Catherine turned and ran along the side of the house to the front, where Grissom had told her Nick had fled to with Sara.

Catherine, Greg and Warrick arrived in the front yard at the same time to see Nick, barely standing, trying to escape the paramedics to make sure Sara was okay. In the end, after several reassurances, Nick allowed himself to be placed onto a stretcher and strapped in for the ride to the hospital. The three gathered CSIs looked at each other and shook their heads, sombre; they were all glad the terror was over.

A/N: Almost the end! Review, please.


	11. You Mean Too Much to Me, Too

-EPILOGUE- 

Brass walked briskly through the halls of the CSI headquarters and knocked on Supervisor Gil Grissom's office door.

"Hey," he said, as Grissom looked up, expectantly. When Grissom failed to communicate, as usual, Brass continued. "We got a confession."

"Whose?"

"Peter. You knew him as Peter Humber, Catherine and Warrick knew him as Peter Ryerson, real name Peter Jackson."

"I knew that."

"You knew his real name was Jackson?"

"Yes, it was on the printout Greg handed me. He owned the first car used in the kidnapping."

"Well, he confessed to Grace Vanderton's murder. They met on a set and he claims it was true love at first sight... if you can believe that. He says he snuck in under pretense of visiting his girlfriend, Grace, then killed her because her supposed ex-husband was not, in fact, her ex-husband. They were never divorced. Peter, for all his obvious charm, Brass said with a sneer, "couldn't convince her to leave the rich old fart for him. He was, however, included in her will."

"How handy," Grissom offered. He always loved a tidy little confession to go along with the evidence; some of the jury members were always bound to be old-fashioned and dubious of modern technology. "And what of the kidnappings?"

"Part of a gang initiation gone bad. Pete was clean for a couple of years, got some commercials on his resumé, things went south with Grace and he went back to the drugs, the booze, the hookers, the whole nine yards. Tried to look up some of his old boys, but they've been clean for years. None of 'em ever wanted to look back. Pete, being resourceful, drags his dealer's clients into the ring."

"So everything's done here," Grissom stated.

"Indeed."

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Sara lay in a coma. The bullet had finally been removed from her shoulder; it had barely missed the subclavian artery. A millimeter more, and she would have bled out within minutes. At Nick's constant request, his bed had been moved to Sara's room, and he lay beside her now, their cots touching, waiting for her to wake up. The steady beep of her heart monitor, though assuring she was alive, became a monotonous nuisance drilling into Nick's head. He wished for the umpteenth time that she was strong enough not to need to be monitored, but her incredible blood loss had made her dependant on many machines. Maybe it was a good thing, Nick thought, that Sara wasn't awake to see that she couldn't move on her own, or that she needed help. Accepting help was never one of Sara's strong points.

Nick shifted, his headache slowly dissipating. The doctors said he'd be fine after a couple of week's rest, so he decided to enjoy some time off despite the his sterile and impersonal surroundings. He sighed and reached over onto Sara's cot, grabbing her hand with his and holding it. Whenever he wasn't watching her, he was sleeping, and somehow her touch made it easier to do so. He closed his eyes reluctantly and squeezed Sara's hand.

Sara's eyes fluttered open, but shut again immediately when the light reached her pupils. She groaned deep in her throat and put her hand up to her head, making a rubber tube fall against her arm. She frowned and squinted at her arm, then realizing that the tube was connected to her... an I.V. She was in the hospital. She was so incapacitated by the struggle that had ensued between she, Nick and the four shadows once she had woken up in that bright cement cell that she actually needed to be in the hospital. The thought almost made her sick to her stomach. She coughed violently and brought her hands up to her mouth, always one to prevent the spreading of germs, but was surprised at the weight on the arm not hooked up to the I.V. She tried lifting it again and did, slightly; there was something on her hand. She tilted her head as much as she could and found there was another hand holding her own. Startled, she followed the arm up to the bed next to her, where Nick lay with his eyes closed and tubes sticking out of him as well. She squeezed his hand gently and lay her head back on her pillow, closing her eyes against the blinding white sterility.

A short while later, Nick awoke to a numbness in his arm. He realized he'd rolled onto his arm in his sleep, and rolled off of it, shaking it slightly. He looked down at the I.V. in his hand and realized that Sara's hand was still in his. He smiled and squeezed it. His heart leapt into his throat when he felt Sara squeeze back.

"Sar..." he whispered.

She looked at him and smiled, her eyes brimming. "Oh, Nicky..."

Sara moved over in the cot so her shoulder was touching Nick's. Nick reached over and stroked her hair, tucking every loose piece behind her ear.

"We did it, Sar. We made it."

Sara's eyes fluttered shut and she leaned into Nick slowly. "We did," she agreed, before she touched her lips softly to Nick's. Nick pulled her closer and returned the kiss, deepening it as far as he dared with them both having suffered such incapacitating injuries. Sara pulled away and looked at Nick, her eyes still misty but shining.

"And I'm glad we made it... I'd blame myself if something happened."

"Sara, you couldn't blame yourself..."

"But I would have... you mean too much to me, too."

FINI

A/N: like it? Hate it? Glad it was all up in one day? lol. Please informez-moi. Avec un review. S'il Vous Plait.

p.s. some thanks for my reviewers! or I guess it's thanks, gracias and merci... either way,you make me happy.

ALEX! you are a nutcase! but thank you for the reviews. :) and thank you for NOT reading the other one. (and I don't do the crossover thing... yet.) are those pink and blue socks MINE, by any chance?  
lol love the name. boo?

Marie: I meant, he kicked it so the light went out. There wasn't actually a hole. Unless, without my knowing it, he suddenly gained superhuman strength and kicked a hole through layers of glass and steel... no, I think he just broke the light.Thanks for reviewing!

M2S: I tried to get all the characters in, so I'm glad you noticed lol. Please tell my sister there was action, she didn't believe me. Even after she read it.

A Christy: I'm quite honoured to be getting a review from you :D And I posted every single chapter immediately, I guess it was just a delay on behalf of the site.

DarkDreamer56: Gah! Give me a chance to get some ideas before I write another fic! (trust me, they're few and far between.)

CSIFreak6: Yeah, that's a delay on the site, because I was DEFINATELY up late posting these all together. Well, I guess it's cleared up now...

And last but not least, Sahariah: MY FIRST REVIEWER! (squee) Ask and you shall receive... the entire story is posted and updated. Thanks so much for reviewing!


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